Or More Like Your Ghost
by Pernicia
Summary: Lots of people wonder if there's life after death. That'd suck for me, since I died to escape life. I suppose it figures that I'd come back as a ghost. So that everyone could haunt me.
1. So Dark

**Disclaimer: **"Did you write this?" No, it was written by Frank Wedekind in 1891.

**Notes: **My first Spring Awakening fic. The spoken lines are from one of the translations of Wedekind's text, and a few musical lines are mixed in. Moritz is a bit scatter-brained in this because, of course, he's overwhelmed, really losing it- and then later, literally scatter-brained.

"A single word would have done it."

I only had to say yes. One word, one simple word. And I didn't, I couldn't, now I can't… one word…

But I'm not much good with words. Wasn't much good, soon. Must not have been, since I couldn't pass… if only I had passed.

Time's passed. It's passing, and I'm passing. But I'm done, I was done so long ago… I've done myself in, it's not what anyone else has done. I'm done. I'm done!

A single word… a single word…

"Ilse!"

A single. Alone. Like me. But we're just words, to be forgotten. No, worse that that, not forgotten, unnoticed, never heard to be forgotten. Never remembered… will they remember me?

"Ilse!"

Will she? Will they remember her? Will they remember her as I do? The memories, pirates and wigwams, children in the grass… if only I could forget it all. Remember to forget, that's how I live- no, lived. Tried to live. God, I tried… and they'll forget to remember me.

But Ilse can survive on her own, she can live as sure as I can't. She knows how. She's got life, and that's more than I've got now. She doesn't know, but she will soon. What will she think? No, I don't want to know- just more things on my laundry line, their things, things to hang… may be I should hang, would that be less painful? Dangling from the branches, swaying in her blue wind…

"Thank God she can't hear now."

If only she could hear… but, even if she were here, she couldn't hear, none of them can. They're there, and I'm here, and none of us hear each other, it's all just a mess, just screwed up mess…

"I'm not in the mood."

I can't feel anything. And I feel too much, loads and loads, all their loads; and it overloads me.

"You have to have a clear head and feel good."

My head's a mess. All messed up. Gun to my head, and squeeze- one bullet through, my brains scattered, hanging from the willow branches. There aren't many of them… God, I can't feel anything…

"A pity to miss such a chance, though, a great pity!"

For the love of God, all I had to do was say yes! What would have happened? Oh, who knows? Who knows?

"I'll say I had great crystal mirrors over my bed… trained an unruly filly… made her strut across the carpet before me in long, black, silk stockings and black patent-leather shoes and long, black, kid gloves and black velvet round her neck…"

Ilse… Is this how they treat you?

"…stifled her with my pillow in a sudden attack of madness… when the talk is of lust I shall smile…"

But it's a stranger, not me. The lie's too strange for me to fall into, but the truth's stranger. Strange. I'm strange, I know, so strange…

"I shall… SCREAM! I SHALL SCREAM! TO BE YOU, ILSE! WHERE PRIAPUS REIGNS! UNCONSCIOUSNESS! IT SAPS MY STRENGTH! THIS CHILD OF FORUTUNE, CHILD OF SUNSHINE, DAUGHTER OF JOY UPON MY WAY OF SORROWS! OH! OH!"

How to be her! How to survive! How to feel the gun on my chest and to merely tremble, to pass out in some trash heap not know if I should wake up! I wouldn't wake at all, if each waking moment held the wake of fear. Awakening, in spring- such a terrible thing to know.

Dancing through the king's tapers, and watching the angels dance beside me, calling my name. 'Moritz,' they say, those angels. 'Moritz,' and they laugh.

So what will I say? I'll tell them – the angels – I got drunk in the snow. Then sang and played pirates. Yes, I'll tell them. I'm ready now. I'll be an angel.

And, the tapers, now they're soaked through with blood.

"How did I get back here?"

How? I must have stumbled… all the stumbling, I'm stumbled so far… but not so much farther now, to stumble… not much farther left for me, before I'm left, left behind… There's so much I've left behind.

"That grassy bank. The king's tapers seem to have grown since yesterday. The view through the willows is the same, though."

The same… but not for long, not with my brains dangling down on the passers by, dripping as they just pass by, screaming at my passing… trying to say bye.

"How sluggish the river is!"

Slug. Lazy slug. That's what my father will say, "Moritz, he was always so slow." When they pass by this spot, when they think of me, if they think of me, they'll wonder, I suppose… Am I slow in the brain? Or are they rushing? They'll be rushing by, I think, too hurried to say bye, too worried…

"Like molten led…"

So slow… time's slowing down, like they say it does… they're right again, like they always are, with their books… who'd have thought I'd think of books, or know those kinds of tales. They happen, though, those tragedies, in history… in science… Does that make me right?

Right hand or left hand, right or left… so left behind…

"Don't let me forget."

I'll remember them, I will, if they remember me. Even if they don't, it can't be helped.

Forget these itches, this sadness, these sticky dreams, these stirrings of manhood… but it simply can't be helped. I'll always remember… remember me, please, remember…

Remember, this isn't your fault.

They'll know that. Or I hope they will. Oh, what do I care? Why should I when they don't. Not one of them. Not Mom, not Dad, not Thea, or Anna, or Wendla, or Otto and Georg, or Hanschen and Ernst, and Melchior can't understand. Yet, they understand too well; they can't know this dark I know well.

They've hung me out to dry… I can see the vulture swooping, ready to pick at my eyes… who will close them? They simply can't be open… but I can't close my eyes. I want to see them, in my mind, those flames…

"Look at those sparks! 'In and out and roundabout!'"

The letter, it's burning… dying… dying like her advice, dying like me, for all it did to me.

"Ghosts!"

Angels- I'll be an angel! I'll be flying, flying like a butterfly…

"Shooting stars!"

Flying- shooting! The shooting- shoot, it's come so soon… maybe I will close my eyes, as not to see the killing shot… oh, who cares, it's already been shot. The moment he called my name, it was done. Everyday in class, all done. I'm done.

No… not quite… What to say?

Eighty lines of Virgil, sixteen equations, paper on the Hapsburgs… the Sassanids, the sermon on the mount… the Parallelepipedon on my conscience… parallelepipedon.

All those things I haven't done- will they lay there in my sack, undone? Forever? 'Til they burn- I hope they don't cremate me…look, the sparks are gone now.

One more chance, one to turn back… Ilse. She took it with her, that chance I had. Offered it, and then stole it for herself. I hope it does her any good, because it's done me naught.

How to live when I never feel a thing? No, I feel too much, and it burns, it overloads, it kills… it kills!

"Before I lit that match, you could still see the grass and a strip of light on the horizon."

It's so far away… away, I'm going away, my own way…

It's so dark.

"It's got dark now."

So dark.

"I won't go home again now."

So dark!

"Parallelepi-!"

Oh, god, I forgot to write a note…

_Bang._

_So dark…_

**

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This really ruins the effect, doesn't it? Um, review? Please, remember?


	2. Left Behind

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, not mine. Yes, I do sadness. Like Moritz. Also, any lines I take from any version of Wedekind's play or Sheik's musical belong to their respective owners- which is only me in my dreams or Moritz nightmares. "No, Moritz, don't do it, don't do it!" Such a hypocrite, seeing as I kill him off several times…

**Notes: **Thank you everyone for your reviews, I appreciate them (and Moritz does too- he could sure use a little cheering up right now, so if you want to leave another one, feel free). These next chapters are written in a strange style that even I don't understand. A bit like the first chapter with Moritz's random thoughts. He just thinks so much, all at once, with some thoughts dominating and other floating randomly, and feeling two entirely different emotions, plus the narrating…

Also, I've combined the musical and play to make this, so some events from both take place. Moritz's head (or what's left behind, pun intended) isn't attached to his body in the grave, but his head in his "spirit" form is attached because that would just be too much for him if it wasn't- though, I did consider him using it to juggle or something.

I've modernized Moritz a little, since he just seems perfect for that, plus the musical makes it possible anyway. And then I go off quoting the original play…

**Warning: **If you've listened to the Spring Awakening music, this should be appropriate for you. Just a little language (more in the next chapter, which I won't simultaneously- reviews determine the release date). Character death, suicide (obviously), and darkness. Tragicomedy. If I ever get past the notes.

_So dark._

"_Whipped cream…"_

_No light._

"_When the moment comes, I'll think with my whole being of whipped cream"_

_No angels, no sparks, no shooting stars._

"_Whipped cream won't stop me."_

_Ghosts…_

"_It leaves behind a pleasant aftertaste."_

_Whispering, I hear them in the moonlight. A shadow passed, a shadow passed, yearning, yearning…_

"_It doesn't end up in your trousers."_

_I won't go home again now._

When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is his face.

_Crap._

Why die now, now that I've finally escaped his grasp? Of course, he'd die when I do, just to torment me even more. Died from shame probably.

Except… he really doesn't look dead.

_Crap._

No, he's alive, and he is staring directly at me.

_I must have missed._

It's odd that he'd be looking at me, and not looking away, ashamed. It's odd that he's here at all, since I know he wouldn't come unless someone forced him to. He'd be out there, trying to cover it up.

"No, that's not my son- no son of mine would ever, ever do that."

"Where's Moritz, you say? Moritz simply has a bad case of… of anemia and has to be hospitalized for a time. Hey, it happens to everyone these days…"

"He didn't fail out of school, why? Does he look like an idiot to you too?"

"Of course there's no gun, some stranger must have planted it there, if there ever was one- I've got my eye on you, Melchior Gabor…"

"His face- why, he cut it. Not him, that is to say, but something cut it and did it _to _him. Ah well, who cares about the hole- he can put a hanky through it."

"What matters most is that he's alive."

"Alive."

_Alive._

"Alive!?"

Yep. "No son of mine would do this," he say.

_And no son of mine would be incompetent enough to miss._

So he's staring at me. From a distance- that's odd, like I'm below him- but, who am I kidding, I'm always below him.

_Am I supposed to say something?_

I simply stare back, waiting for him to launch into his lecture of how I'm a failure, how he wishes I'd died or for that matter had never been born. Then, maybe I could pretend to faint and die of blood loss out of his negligence or something like that.

_A shadow passed, a shadow passed…_

But he doesn't speak. Maybe he doesn't realize I'm awake. I mean, my eyes are open and all, but some people sleep like that, right? And I'm laying so still- I really shouldn't be able to move for a while now…

And then, the weirdest thing happens- and trust me, once you've experienced the rest of my day, calling something "weird" is nearly impossible.

He's crying.

_Impossible._

First, mere moisture. Water. The human body is made up of 65% water- I know that from class. I suppose I'm not as dumb as he thinks. I'm a master a random, useless facts.

Like a gun, for instance. A bullet shot through your skulls moves at a rate of… well, it kills you.

Like it killed me.

Or, more like it was _supposed _to kill me.

Somehow, I'd managed to fail at that as well.

_That's gotta be why Dad's crying._

The tears are more shaped now, sliding down his cheeks like raindrops. It's sunny today, I can see that floating above his head. Maybe heaven's inside the sun- the earth revolves around it, but it never gets any closer to salvation, nor comprehension.

The grownups would disagree, so I suppose I'm right.

Dad's trying to hide the tears, I can tell. But… why? What's the point, if I'm like… well, six feet below him, I've still got good eyesight! Six feet… that's an odd, familiar number.

And now he speaks.

"Moritz."

Moritz. Not boy, not kid, not son. Moritz. And it's more of a croak.

He can't say much after that, not for a while. He's trying to suppress the tears harder than ever- why? Am I disfigured? I don't feel disfigured.

I don't feel much of anything, in fact. They must have drugged me.

"My boy," he tries again, and it's back to that word. Boy.

_blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah_

"They told me to come," he says, confirming what I already had guessed. He clears his throat. "They told me to come because I know you the best."

Huh. Not what I expected. He's speaking so softly, like he's afraid to be heard- are there people listening at the door? No, wait, the sun's out. We're outside. Then what kind of walls are these anyway?

"Because I- I knew you."

Dirt. Figures. What, knew? I suppose he doesn't know me anymore- but he never did.

"But I never did."

Ha, did I call it, or did I… wait, did?

"Of all of them, I knew you the least."

Did? Knew?

"They all knew that you were a person, but to me, you were only a boy."

Maybe I'm supposed to point out his wrong conjugation. Maybe it's all a test.

"I pretended that you were my son, but I could never pretend hard enough. Not to know… you."

God, my whole life's like some test!

"I knew you were because you were so much like me, so much as I pretended not to be. But I didn't think… I didn't think at all."

His voice becomes wobbly, and the tears he's managed to keep gathered in his eyes for the most part finally break as he falls on his knees, whispering.

_Yearning, yearning…_

"This is all my fault."

My father? Admitting something is his fault? Ha! I must be dead.

_I must be dead._

"This is all my fault," he repeats in sobs, pressing his hands to his face. "I never gave you a life, so you thought you had none."

No way, I'm not dead. Because if I were… well, I'd be dead then. Right?

So why the past tense? Why the six-foot-deep dirt walls? Why the sun?

Why the confessions?

"And I can't tell you now-"

Uh, they installed a sunroof?

"I'll never be able to tell you-"

Maybe the ceiling collapsed.

"Like I always wanted to-"

Or maybe it's just a really, really bright light and someone decided to paint the ceiling blue!

"Though I didn't know it-"

I'm running out of lame excuses- some explanation would be nice!

"That-"

_I'm not dead, I'm not dead, I'm not dead…_

"That-"

_imnotdeadimnotdeadimnotdead…_

His voice breaks, and he removes his hands, staring right at me.

_So why can't he see me?_

"I love…"

"Herr Stiefel."

It's Frau Knuppeldick.

_Don't look away, we were having our first intimate conversation- probably because I didn't really converse- in our life… death… I'm not dead!_

My father looks away, hastily wiping the remnants of grief from his face. Coward.

"Yes?"

She glances at me sternly, then back up at him. "The procession needs to continue."

My father bows his head, and I can see emotion take flight, replaced by…

"That boy wasn't mine."

Himself.

Fra Knuppeldick pats him on the shoulder, and he repeats the words, repressing new tears, "That boy wasn't mine."

_He's lying._

I'm frozen. By what? By the fact that everyone assumes I'm dead and therefore shouldn't be able to move? By anger that he's talking dirty about me, telling his truth?

Or by shock that he's lying?

His eyes say it all, all the words unsaid, all the thoughts that ever flickered through his head. All my dad had hoped I'd know.

_I love you._

He can't say it. Not out loud.

Frau Knuppeldick takes a step back, leaving no room for misinterpretation: she wants this over, and fast.

He can't argue with society. He'll never say the words, not after this.

He'll never say them.

Still, he falters while rising, taking one last glance into my eyes.

I open my mouth, whispering the word I'd always dreaded.

"Dad…"

"…Moritz," he sobs.

The rose he clutched so closely to his chest falls, forever buried, never to be seen by society.

_Moritz._

That's who I'll be, from now on. Moritz. Not his boy. But not his son.

Is that good?

Is it bad?

He limps away.

"Damn it!"

I bolt up, staggering. What the Lord, I could move this whole time…

Falling against the dirt wall, I scream at the top of my lungs, "DAMN IT!"

He's not coming back. He's left me behind.

_Left behind…_

"I just swore, don't you care?"

I pound my fist against the dirt wall- the solid dirt wall, mind you- in vain. No noise.

"Doesn't anyone freaking care?!"

Frau Knuppeldick takes a step closer to me, looking down upon me.

"Oh, not you, I know you don't care…"

"A pity," she says, and I freeze, wondering if she's replying to me.

"Such a pity," she continues, not quite looking me in the eye. "If only the boy had waited to do his wicked deed in Priapia or some other shameful town. Only a selfish boy as he would ensure his final damage stains the entire town's reputation."

Do I look like I care? Can she even see how I look? My nervous face, my angsty one… heck, I'll even try my puppy dog face, the one I've mastered through years of eating everyone else's scraps.

"He was a failure-"

Glad to have that clarified yet again, perhaps they'll inscribe it on my tombstone: _Here lies Moritz the Idiot. He failed, and he's dead._

"-even if he didn't really fail out of class."

The sun is setting behind her so I can't see her face well, just one big, dark shadow. Perhaps it's her soul. Seems like it to me.

_I didn't fail._

My father would be proud.

_He was proud anyway._

I failed to see.

_I failed._

She leaves with all the dignity she can muster; she drops no rose. That's what sets her apart, her attempts to blend in with dignified society. If those are her terms, then she's the failure.

That's the part of religion that makes no sense. They pray to their god, instill his values on us when inside, they're the ones who need the teachings. But they can't be taught- nothing is okay unless it's scripted in their bibles.

According to their scriptures, I'm evil. I'm to be scorned- but, if so, why the grieving? Shouldn't there be some celebration?

According to their scriptures, I shouldn't even exist.

But I'm still here.

What does that say about God?

Either he doesn't want me or he doesn't exist.

_Either way, I'm screwed._

So what's beyond the roses in the grave?

Slowly, I turn around.

_Don't look down._

Never look down. But they always do, the squeamish sidekicks, the damsel in distress… me…

I'm looking down. I'm staring at myself.

_I am so screwed._

"Well," I state moments later. "That's creepy."

We stare at each other for a few more seconds. I would have been looking into his eyes. If he had any.

There's a freaking hole in my head. Or, in what was my head that is now a smudge of blood and shattered bones.

_See me, God? I'm holey._

"This isn't creepy, it's insane!" I cry. Holy? Holey? Lame! "This is all insane, it's one of those nightmares! They won't leave me alone!"

I wrap my hands around my head- mine, not that stranger's in the grave. Mine is the one without holes, unholey. Unholy. But at least it's whole.

"If it's a nightmare, I suppose I should be grateful," I mutter, "that I'm not dreaming of women."

Or perhaps Ilse was a dream as well. Ilse…

Maybe it's all been a dream. The exams, the Latin, the pirates- even the dreams have been dreams. I'll wake up, and I'll find I've always been asleep.

I'll never wake up.

Moritz Stiefel never existed.

Is it wrong to hope so?

_A shadow passed, a shadow passed…_

A shadow passes over the grave.

"What?! What could you possibly want with me?! You're covering me up, away from the rest of you, so WHAT DO YOU CARE?!"

I throw my hands away, glaring up, straight into the eyes of…

Melchior Gabor.

If he hadn't have shown me the essay, perhaps I'd never have gone over the edge.

And if ice sank, we'd all be dead.

No use thinking then. That was his area of expertise.

At the very least, though, he cared. Perhaps more than anyone.

I never said good-bye.

I cared too much to.

"Moritz," he whispers, and I wait for his inspiring, rebellious speech. He leaves it at that, my name. A vow to remember.

"Melchior," I whisper, gazing up at him longingly with puppy-dog eyes. He gazes back beyond me, at the near headless stranger. "Melchior…"

I don't know what to say.

He doesn't either.

"Hear me," I beg in desperation. "You don't need to understand just… just hear, me won't you? Hear me calling?"

I'm crying. Once again. Dead, and still alone.

"I'm calling, I'm calling- and no one will ever know!"

So this is Hell.

"_And it whistles through the ghosts_," Melchior murmurs, "_still left behind…_"

A ghost. Was that all I was? Left behind?

_Left behind, left behind, left behind…_

"_And it whistles through the ghosts, still left behind…_" His voice fades as the rose drops and he stares ahead- the only direction he could go- numbly, looking much like a ghost himself. "_Behind_."

Before he stood at my grave, you could still see the grass and a strip of light on the horizon. It's got dark now.

_I won't go home again now._

A shadow passes, and Melchior leaves me forever.

_Still left behind…_

And more alone than ever.

_Oh, God, don't they realize I'm claustrophobic?_

How odd that they wouldn't close the coffin before burying it.

_Oh, God…_

Last time I used the word odd, the answer killed me. Literally.

And this time?

They had already closed the coffin.

Sure, maybe there was a sunroof, or maybe the ceiling had collapsed, or maybe it was a newly discovered transparent piece of wood.

Or maybe my head was now sticking _through_ the coffin's top.

Could my life get more messed up?

Could my _death _get more messed up?

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**Even if I messed up… review? Tell me how I did. Or didn't. Please? For Moritz? *****does puppy-dog face***


	3. Pulling Up and Falling Down

**Disclaimer: **Good thing it isn't mine, or it might never have gotten finished.

**Notes: **No, I'm not dead. That's Moritz. I'm just big on sporadic updates. Hopefully people still remember this fic. Some language, but what can you expect from someone who wakes up after shooting his brains out?

"Can't anyone just die in peace?" I fume, throwing my hands up and through the coffin's top. I imagine that if anyone could see me, they'd laugh at me more than they were already.

"Seriously," I mutter. Seeing as I'll be resting in peace the rest of my life- death- whatever!- couldn't they at least have had the courtesy to drop off a book or something? Anything but _Faust_. My old chewed up teddy bear, even?

Not that I could turn the pages if I was a ghost.

But I could touch the dirt walls, what was with that? Maybe I could only touch certain things- that'd sure solve my fear about touching women. Maybe…

"Quick, quick! The gravediggers are coming over there."

Ilse's voice, and sure enough, she appears above me a moment later. Her rose is gone, and I don't doubt that she's already visited once, when I was delirious.

"Shouldn't we wait?" The second girl steps into view, carrying a wreath of ivy in her arms. Martha. I didn't know her well, but evidently she knew me better, well enough to miss me.

"What for?" Ilse asks. "We'll bring fresh ones. Always fresh, fresh! They grow everywhere!"

"That's right, Ilse." She throws the ivy wreath into the grave. It lands over my head. Would have been a crown if it hadn't fallen through my head and onto the coffin. As it is, it circles my neck. But that's okay- I never wanted a crown. Melchior had always been the king or prince. I was the servant, the loyal servant.

Some loyal servant to abandon his master.

Ilse opens her apron, and a stream of fresh anemones floats down my grave. One lands before me. It looks so nice, like I could touch it.

I try. I can't. Everything beautiful hates me.

"I'll dig up our roses," Martha continues, and I look up at her. Shadows pass over her face, but she manages a smile. "I get beaten anyway. They'll grow here so well…"

She lets herself dream of spring. And I couldn't be heard to warn her against it.

"I'll water them every time I go by," Ilse nods. Last time she tried watering something to make it grow didn't go so well. "I'll bring forget-me-nots from the brook and irises from home."

"It'll become a marvel!" Martha declares. "No one who sees it will be able to forget."

"I imagine so," Ilse replies quietly, staring down with empty eyes. She is so beautiful… and I can never touch her. I never did, not as she touched me. "I'd already crossed the bridge when I heard the bang."

Her eyes reflect her sentiment, but I can't see beyond that. I don't want to. Because I know I've abandoned her too.

"Poor thing," Martha coos, but it's half-hearted. I can bear to look at her, who I knew less. Ghosts danced in her eyes as well, haunted by the part of life she could never tell, the darkness that she knew so well.

_So dark._

"And I know why, Martha," Ilse says sadly. Everywhere I look, she's staring at me… Could she know why?

"Did he tell you something?" Martha questions.

I watch her shadow bow its head in shame. But, for once, it's not shame at me. For once, it should be.

"Yes," she murmurs, "but I didn't hear."

_Oh, you're gonna be wounded…_

Silence, and then, "Parallelepipedon."

"What?"

"That's what he said as he… He was on parallelpipedon. Don't tell!"

"Cross my heart," Martha murmurs, and she means it. She's got big one, I can tell, despite the bruises. It's the bruises that make it grow. The bruises that hurt the most, and the bruises that welcome the greatest happiness. The dark I know well, and the word of my body.

_Oh, you're gonna be my bruise…_

"Here's the pistol." Ilse glances behind her, and fearing the gravediggers' approach, hastily yet carefully removes a shiny, silver object from underneath her apron.

_You're gonna be wounded, kid._

The weapon that took my life.

_The guilty one._

Martha looks at her in awe, reaching out, as if to touch the pistol before withdrawing. "So that's why they couldn't find it."

"I took it straight out of his hand when I went by," Ilse explains with little emotion.

_Thank God she can't hear…_

So she heard.

"Let's have it, Ilse!" Martha begs, falling back into her childhood plunders of wooden swords and secret treasures.

But Ilse, somehow wiser, shakes her head. Perhaps that's why she longs for summer, because she knew spring, she knows autumn… She fears winter. I know winter.

"It's my keepsake," she explains, but the reason is deeper than that. Maybe it's a memory. Maybe it's a warning. Or maybe it's all she has left. And what need do I have for it now anyway? By all means, she can keep the thing. With her profession, she'll need it.

_God, I hope she never needs it._

"Ilse," Martha begins, and her voice wavers. "Is-is it true he's down there with no head?"

_Head? What head? He had a head to begin with? Brainless idiot, no wonder he shot for the brain, probably didn't think he had one. Didn't think at all!_

That's what she says in my head. In the head I pretend to have.

But Ilse's not as wild as she once was. And she was never cruel. "He must have loaded it with water," she replies quietly. "His blood was spattered round and round on the bulrushes. His brains were hanging all over the willows."

Martha claps her hands over her mouth, looking grateful not to have seen me after all. I'm grateful too- that body, that thing, wasn't me.

Moritz Stiefel. It was just a name, after all.

_Then who am I?_

"Come," Ilse beckons, "the gravediggers will be here in a moment. Let's go in the woods- the tapers should be in bloom. We can find our old wigwam, and…" She trails off, looking up. I imagine she sees my face in her head. If only she'd look down…

The last time she spoke of summer, it only brought on winter. She wonders if she's making the same mistake with Martha, if opening the purple summer will only ruin her as well once she sees the darkness. And we both start with the letter "M" too…

Martha nods obliviously. "I'm in no hurry to return home."

_Home. _The word rings empty, as if it were just that: a word. A name, and nothing more.

Ilse pretends not to take one last glance in my grave. By chance, she's looking straight into my eyes, dying to ask the unanswerable question.

_Why?_

I can't look. Dying with my eyes open was easier than this.

Then, as if they were sisters, they cling to each other as they hurry away, bonded inseparably by existence. I guess I was wrong about Martha: she couldn't be killed by darkness she already knew. Only an idiot like me surrounds himself in darkness when offered light.

_Only an idiot like…_

A spadeful of dirt promptly falls on my head.

"Bwah!" I spit, expelling every bit of dirt I could, picking at the particles that had sunken between my teeth. Glaring, I lift my head, opening my mouth only to have it filled with another spadeful of dirt.

"BWAH!" Spitting, I shout, half to the gravediggers, "Of course, dirt sticks to me! It's always stuck! It's slid down my trousers by now, depending if they bothered putting any on me underneath this… this… a tux, nice! Couldn't have just gone with what I _died _in… are any of you going to say anything?!"

In response, a third spadeful was shoved down, landing on my head and rolling down my face, clinging to bits of my hair. I doubt that the gravediggers would notice the bare spot on the coffin, sheltered by me. In fact, I bet that the dirt becomes as invisible as me. Figures I'm categorized with dirt.

"That's it, I'm getting out of here," I mumble, standing up.

I wasn't fully grown- another thing I'll never be- but even if I were, I doubted I'd span six feet. It didn't help that my feet went right through the coffin. But at least I didn't fall into the earth. Maybe that's what I'd come to, the world of fire…

Holding my breath- or whatever I inhale by habit now- I prepare myself.

_I wasn't prepared._

A leap of faith.

And, as I'd long abandoned any faith I'd managed to cling onto, it makes no difference: the leap was just a leap. And a miss.

I must have missed.

_Crap._

Somehow, my hands clutch onto the top layer of ground, just below the grass. Strenuously, I pull myself up- it's no easier dead than alive, and I hardly know if I'd make it when alive. The pull-ups at school were for kids like Hanschen or Melchior, who had the strength- have it. Strength wasn't for me.

Still isn't. I pulled up and fell down on the bar, but the numbers fell from the Herr's mouth so slowly, and they repeated, over and over as I swung limply…

_Maybe I should have hanged myself. Maybe then I'd be dead._

Pulling up and falling down on that bar…

But I always failed. I flunked out, didn't I?

"_Even if he didn't really…"_

I really failed. When the number came, it looked a bit like my mouth.

0

Like their laughs.

0

Pulling up and falling down on that bar…

This time it counts.

I pull myself up, and I fall down. On the grass.

_Through the open books on the grass…_

Through the grass. On the dirt. Always dirt.

I'd rather lie there forever. Unmoving, like a corpses, watching their kids come down, watching them play pirates, get drunk in the snow. Watching them grow, watching them mature, watching them awaken.

Watching summer.

Watching the Ilse's dance with their wooden swords and tomahawks. Watching the Melchior's with their speeches and crowns. Watching the Wendla's play the fairy princesses.

Watching spring.

Watching the Melchior's rise in rebellion. Watching the Wendla's gather woodruff for funerals. Watching the Hanschen's seduce the world with their eyes. Watching the Ilse's driven out with no words.

Watching autumn.

Watching the Ilse's prance back, dreaming of summer. Watching the Melchior's take action with the stirrings of manhood. Watching the Wendla's trapped in the Caribbean, where the weather never changes and the beaches are always open.

Watching the school boys wander home, speaking of painlessly of Greek, Democrites, and Virgil.

Watching the poor little boy Moritz get left behind, all alone on the school night.

"I'll be an angel," he'll say.

One shot, then _bang! _So dark, no light, whipped cream…

The winter.

"God, I dreamed there was an angel," he ponders when he wakes, "who could hear me through the wall as I cried out, like in Latin, 'This is so not life at all!'"

Watching, giving him time, those last few moments.

"Just give it time, kid," I'll say. "I come to one and all. Give me your hand, please, that itch you can't control. Let me teach you how to handle all the sadness in your soul. Oh, we worked that silver magic- and we aimed it at our heads."

And I'll laugh, "You lost, kid. You're dead. Love has made you blind, and I don't mind at all."

Watching, watching, always watching…

Asking, "What went wrong?"

"Is this it?" he'll cry. "This can't be it…"

I'll smile. "Yep, kid."

_The bitch of living…the bitch of living in your head…_

I'll laugh. "Oh, god, what a bitch!"

_Oh, god, this can't be it…_

Lying in the grass. Through the grass. Everything beautiful hates me!

I stand.

The nearest gravedigger raises his spade at the same moment, flinging some of the last bits of dirt into the grave. Or mound, now. Pile of dirt. Whatever I am.

The spade hits me. In the head. As things seem to do lately.

I fall.

But that's no surprise. What is is the pain- the bruising sensation in my head- and unlike the other pain, this kind isn't just in my head. It actually hurts.

Really, only one word is appropriate.

"Ow."

Yep… truly the only appropriate word. Not that anyone care about appropriate anymore.

In the- through the- God, this is getting old…

I look up, up at the long blue shadows of the gravediggers, done with their job and all too eager to leave it behind them.

_Left behind…_

I don't know them, and I don't care. Instead, I find myself staring at the tombstone, wondering what message they've left me.

It's like the five tests I took, or Ernst Robel's six; it's like the pull-ups; like my mouth; like their laughs.

Pulling up and falling down on that bar.

0

"_I don't suppose I'll get a tombstone."_

Nothing. No name. No inscription. No loving memory, no memory at all. No rest in peace. No rest, and no peace.

Just a mound of dirt, stray anemone petals, and a small cross, which cast a long shadow over my grave in the moonlight.

"_We know that they who love God make all things serve the best. Corinthians I 14:12."_

The cross. The shadow.

Their message. "So if you are desiring the things which the Spirit gives, let your minds be turned first to the things which are for the good of the church."

The true Corinthians I 14:12.

The cross. The shadow. The tomb of a martyr? A martyr for all them, that they may live painless?

"_I'd always felt sorry for them because they had me to deal with."_

Forget, forget, forget…

_Don't let me forget…_

Screw the cross. It screwed me.

God, I screwed up…

The mound of dirt, then.

"_I'd have liked a snow-white marble urn on a black syenite column."_

I'd have liked something.

"_Luckily, I won't miss it."_

I missed. I missed.

_Crap._

"_Monuments are for the living, not the dead."_

God, is this it? This can't be it…

"_It would take at least a year to go through everyone in my head and say goodbye."_

All things I never did, left behind? Blows, it blows my mind…

"_I don't want to cry now."_

I'm calling, I'm calling….

Rising up… failing.

Falling, falling, falling down.

The mound of dirt speaks louder than words. Paragraphs. Books. Libraries.

_Forget, forget, forget…_

Time will ensure Moritz Stiefel never existed.

_I'll never wake up._

No memory.

But with nothing to remember, is there nothing left to grieve?

"He was no son of mine…"

"He was a failure…"

"Moritz…"

He was no one.

_So who am I?_

"…Moritz…"

_Who's he?_

_So this is Hell._

**

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Poor, scatter-brained Moritz. No one will remember him- unless, of course, you leave something behind for those left behind… (Hint: Click the greenish rectangle.)**


	4. They Killed Me, I Killed Them

**Disclaimer: **Spring Awakening- whatever, I'm not going to try to be creative- is not mine. Sadly.

**Notes: **Sorry for the unannounced months-long hiatus. I've been busy at work with "Spring Mistakening?" and… well, if we're being honest, I had this written months ago and was just too lazy to post it. *hides her face* Sorry. I just though releasing it the same week of Moritz's suicide in SM was appropriate. Anyway, here's angsty Moritz!

I'd always thought I had nowhere to go. I'd always thought I was a misfit everywhere I went. It's funny how your mind controls the body that way. Too bad I learned the hard way: blowing up your mind doesn't change a thing.

It just makes it all real. You thought no one understood you; and now no one can. You thought you had nothing and nowhere; now you've got nothing. You blew your mind up, and now it's so large, you're trapped there. 'Cause you don't exist anywhere else.

You thought you were going to hell, so you went somewhere worse.

That means the woods, then. Maybe I can die again. Be the first corpse to commit suicide.

Lucifer didn't like heaven. Maybe it's not all it's cracked up to be.

I must've lost my mind to lose my mind like that. Why find it now? Why can't I just lose it forever? Just remember to forget, and forget to remember. 'Cause all I've got now is memories. And if I lose them, then what's left?

_Me._

And who's that? If Moritz Stiefel can die, why can't he?

A shadow passed, yearning for the fool it called home.

_Only the shadow wasn't mine._

The clearing seemed sacred almost. King's tapers. A sluggish river. And… woodruff? A bouquet of woodruff, lying where someone forgot them.

_Someone left them behind._

The view from the willows was different, though. No sparks, no shooting stars. Just a ghost, and the silhouette of a blooming willow tree against a sky that was so dark.

Only, the willows weren't in bloom yet.

_Was that really… my brains?_

Scatter-brained Moritz. It's a name, at least. More than I have now. You'd think they'd have cleaned up the mess, if they wanted rid of me. So I could leave. For them, at least, because I'll never leave.

"Why can't he leave?"

A voice in the dark. It's so dark… surely she can't see me?

She never saw me at all. Yet she was the only one.

_Wait._

Two thoughts- though, how to think without a brain?

1. She saw me.

2. The voice wasn't Ilse's.

And 3, I suppose: Martha had seen me before.

"He's not the only one," Ilse replies. He. Third person. Not me.

But not past tense, at least.

_I wanted past tense._

Face it- if I had a face, I would. The past was tense. I was tense, and now I'm passed. Just not away.

_I was tense, so I tried to pass. And failed. In every way._

Half-heartedly, I wave my hands in front of their eyes. They don't blink. It's as if there's an invisible wall between them and me.

_There always was._

They didn't see me. They never did, really. They're referring to my brains. Funny, no one ever cared much about them before.

"It's not my woodruff, you know," Ilse chatters, gesturing towards the abandoned bouquet. The flowers were white. Like my pillow. I hugged that, too, when I played with guns.

Now they're red.

Martha lifts them off the ground. "You're right. Now it's his."

Great. Haunting memories, bloody flowers, and a blind, invisible boy who was a stranger to everyone. That's what I own.

_And you're what you own._

"We could leave them on his grave," Martha suggests wistfully. "Maybe he wanted them."

"Oh, he did." Ilse's eyes were distant. So she knew, and she knows she knew. But she hadn't known, and I hadn't known she hadn't known. And that's why no one knows anything. "But they've already been there."

My heart sighs as my hearts sigh.

"I didn't know him," Martha admits.

"Did anyone?" Ilse sighs once more. "Poor boy. He doesn't deserve this."

"Do any of us?"

"They'll treat him like a murderer, now. Maybe shift some of the blame to anyone else who dares speak out."

Speak out? I did what I did to silence myself. I couldn't hurt anyone.

Except there's some pretty hard evidence to suggest otherwise._ Well, hurting myself doesn't count as murder._ Of course, I was never any good at mathematics. Or anything, for that matter.

"Him? He was a victim!" Martha cries as she never has before. Her eyes, cloudy with darkness, look a bit like mine did. "They're the murderers! We all are."

Ilse looks away silently. Except she can't look away, because now she's staring at me. Into my eyes. I wonder what she'd see.

"What did you do, Martha?" Her voice is raspy, pained. "How did you kill him?"

"Same way he killed himself."

Ilse forces a wry smile. "With a gun?"

Martha shakes her head. "With silence."

Which is what follows. It's like that evening now, after Ilse left. In a way, I'm alone again. Only, now I'll always be alone. In life- death too, I guess- we're always ever alone. It's the times we're not that we're the loneliest. Like now.

Even now, Martha can't find the words. Silence is all she ever gave; silence is all she'll ever get.

I didn't know her at all.

_Did she know me?_

"How did I think he'd respond," she sounds, breathless with emotion, "to a question I never asked?" Subconsciously, Martha extends her hand out. It's just coincidence her fingers end just short of my heart.

_Did Martha live in the dark too?_

Ilse looks away. "We wish someone will notice us." It's not exactly a question, but both Martha and I nod. "So we ignore the people who do. Martha," and Ilse looks directly at me again.

_Are we all the same?_

"I think I killed him."

Since I'm in hell anyway, I let my angst fly. _Yes, you did._

Of course, it wasn't her fault she haunted my dreams. (Though, damn her for wearing blue stockings the last time I saw her before she disappeared!) It wasn't her fault she tried to borrow my sadness. It's not her fault I was born stupid. All she was was there. And not there. Like she'll always be.

_Like I'll always be._

"I… I talked to him before… before…" She trails off. "That's all I ever did. Talk. About everything I couldn't tell anyone else, since it was all I could ever tell him." She thrusts her arms up. "I'd give him the world, you know. And that's what I did. I gave him everything he was trying to escape! And he tried to tell me." Ilse slumps to the ground. Martha follows. "He called my name. He wasn't going to do it, not if I had turned around. But I was too stubborn, too…" She wipes her face frantically, as if to erase all evidence of the moisture building up in her eyes.

_But I was used to being erased. And I was used to tears._

"I couldn't make a move, so he did." She lets out angry sob, and wordlessly, she reaches into her blouse.

I flinch away. If I killed myself for nothing… well, I already did that. But if whichever god that pretends to exist thought I was going to suffer through what I had killed myself to get away from…

Luckily, she's not stripping. Just withdrawing something.

_Or maybe that's just another way of stripping._

There's a difference between naked and bare. There, in her hands, is a beautiful, feathered tomahawk. I'd like to say I made it, but I only gave it to her. It, like everything beautiful, was Melchior's work.

And in her other hand is a smaller, more pitiful tomahawk. Nearly featherless, it's looks dead. Well, it is, I suppose, since it's mine. Plus, it's been buried longer than I have. Thanks to Melchi Gabor.

_I'm beginning to think that my tomahawk and I have a lot more in common than I first thought._

"I tried… so hard," Ilse sobs, "but he wasn't going to see anything! So, I thought, if I gave him something to see… I thought these might suffice as an engagement ring, so to speak. I was running back… just a hundred yards shy… and then I heard the bang. And I died, Martha," she turns to the girl, tears in her eyes. She's looking at me too, just not seeing me. Role reversal, I guess. "I died before he did."

And suddenly, I'm the biggest idiot in the world. Or wherever I am. The world, since I'm still there, with them.

I'd killed myself to avoid love. I guess I was a little too late. We all were. I certainly was.

_Late, but still here._

I had an angel, ready to take me to heaven.

_And I killed her._

No wonder I'm here; murders don't get into heaven. Unless they're tyrannical parents.

Ilse stifles another sob, and suddenly, she's me. Insecure. Crying. Afraid of the dark.

Ilse? Crying? She's not me. She's the opposite, she's… Melchior. They'd make a nice couple. Well, not nice. But it'd make sense for the Amazon warrior to marry the pirate captain.

No one would want the captain's dog. The timid first mate. The princess's maidservant, once.

It's like she's reading my mind. "I don't even know why I liked him, but I never liked anyone else. Maybe… because he understood me. Well, no," she amended before I could. "But he understood what I was going through because he was going through it himself."

Not to demean her, but I'd never gotten raped by a Bohemian before. I'd never been kicked out of home.

_I kicked myself out._

"God, he was only… afraid. For different reasons. Afraid of what he didn't see as opposed to what we'll always see." She's under control now. Wistful. But I think I'm crying now, since I'm her opposite after all. Can ghosts cry?

Who am I kidding? I'm not questioning my existence, but as soon as I start to cry, I get all existential… Maybe I'm alive after all.

_For once, that doesn't look like such a bad thing. But right now, it's horrible._

"And, until it's too late, no one understands. We're all afraid. They'll just let the fear kill them-" Of course she's looking at me. "-or ignore it until it kills them anyway." She turns to Martha. "Fear. And silence. Is that what kills us all?"

In response, Martha hugs her. Hesitant, I reach forward and try to join in.

My arm floats through them. Everything beautiful hates me. Or loves me, which leaves me with the hate.

I knew I was stupid, and I thought everyone else did. I guess I'm wrong. It's not surprising, since I'm usually wrong about everything.

_I'm ever stupider than they thought._

It wasn't that they didn't see me. They saw me everywhere. In every man they had to love. Everywhere. I didn't see them.

And now I'll see them everywhere, and they'll never be able to see me again. Of course, that doesn't mean they won't see me.

My goal had been to die, hadn't it?

_Well, I died again, all right._

_And I'm not the only one I killed._

**

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Happy Fourth, if you celebrate it!... okay that was really incongruous… Angsty Moritz needs reviews assuring him he didn't just kill the fandom.**


	5. Not Meant to Be Read

**Disclaimer: **If it were mine, it'd still be on Broadway and have national tours playing everywhere! (It was just announced there's going to be a second national tour, though, so if it comes to my town, I'll settle for that.)

**Notes: **Hmmm… my long hiatus must have chased away my reviewers. *frowns* I tend to do that a lot. But I'm still here! As is Moritz (reluctantly). Thanks to Chalcedony Rivers for sticking with me and reviewing! Since I use italics a lot, the stuff that's in italics _and_ underlined is Melchior's writing. The stuff only in italics is still Moritz's angsty thoughts!

You know, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I am in Hell.

'Cause what torment- other than what I killed myself to escape from- could be worse than knowing there was nothing to escape?

No. If this is hell, then none of it's real. I've never met Martha Bessel, not really. Nor Ilse, nor anyone, for that matter. They're the ghosts.

They haunt me.

And I only know how to run away.

Only, this time, it's a different kind of love I run from. Like a sisterhood, a bonding of two people who barely know each other. Three, really, since they'd have never come together, if not for me.

See? I can be good for something.

_I know how to spread the darkness._

Where to go? My grave; I've just left it. Both of them.

Though, everywhere's my grave as long as I'm here. Everywhere, everyone.

So, where's my angel?

_Melchior, _I think wistfully. If only he were here, he'd know what to do. But he's not here for that exact reason. He knows what to do.

That's it- Melchior. He can be my angel- opening up the gates of heaven. The bitch of living can't haunt me in death. Except I failed his test. And I'm… here.

_God, my whole life's like some test…_

No, Melchior's the serpent, and I bit his apple. Then I bit the dust.

Still, it's somewhere to go, somewhere in the midst of nowhere. And I know where he is. Or, part of me must, else I'd never have found him.

The hayloft. And he's alone.

_But he wasn't._

He's scribbling in his diary, a fearful mix of _Faust_'s, and genitals, and rebellious interpretations. You're not supposed to read people's diaries, but there's another reason I wouldn't touch his.

Of course, now I can't touch it anyway, so it can't hurt reading over his shoulder. It's not like it'll make me kill myself.

_Like the last one did._

No, it wasn't Melchior- he knows that, right? It was the essay, but it wasn't _his _essay. It could have been anyone's. It was all of ours, by human right. I just got it wrong, but to remove it from the equation, I couldn't be human anymore. So… I succeeded, I guess. I'm not human.

_And I'm not right._

I try to read.

_I liked to think they were lying to me, like they always do. But I know all about lying- especially now- and I know that it can leave you as empty as it fills you up._

His quill pauses.

"What, Melchi?" I prompt. "What were they lying about?" As if he hears me, he continues scribbling.

_I ended up empty. For once, they weren't lying. I still don't think they are. I did at first, though. I didn't know what else to do._

"But you always know what to do," I interject. "You're Melchior- you're not me."

_So I ran away. It's really the only option they leave._

"No kidding… wait- you? Run away?"

_Moritz's father locked the door when he saw me coming, but Moritz always unlocks his window for me. I swear, he always unlocks his window…so why wouldn't he let me in his life?_

Come to think of it, the window's probably still unlocked, for anyone to intrude in. Fat lot of good it will do, now it's too late.

Why would he run away to my house, anyway? It's what I ran away from. Just more proof that Melchior knows better than me.

_I waited for him all night, on his bed. I finally know what it means, to be tossing and turning all night, like he did._

"You slept on my bed!" I squeaked. "Melchi, the sheets were… like your diary!" Private. Not meant to be read. Oh, well. At least we can be hypocrites together.

_But he slept somewhere else that night._

Rest in peace, they say.

_He never came home again._

"But I'm here, Melchi," I beg, trying to grab him away, pushing my wrists through him over and over in attempts to touch him. "I'm home."

_He really is dead. To them. But he's not dead._

"Melchi…" I murmur in his ear, hope escaping with those words.

_Not to me. He just killed a part of me._

"Me? I'd never hurt a fly!" It's why'd escaped, after all, so as not to hurt the mare…

_Damn him._

"Damn it, Melchi, you're not helping!" I cry. "It's your fault I'm here! You damned me!"

_Damn me._

"What?" I throw my hands in the air. His diary never made any sense to me before, either.

_They chided him for being stupid, but it was us who were the stupid ones. We were too caught up in our own lusts to see his lust for death._

"It's okay, Melchi, I never saw the point in your lust either."

_If they ask me if I killed him, I'll say yes._

"NO!"

_Yes. I will- I did kill him. I thought he was ignorant, and I tried to cure it with my own ignorance. He wasn't ready. And he wasn't ready to die for that._

"Melchior." Reason with him should work- he likes logic. "I'm not dead!"

But, then again, that's not very logical.

_In his own way, Moritz touched me._

"God, Melchi, I'm trying, I'm trying…"

_Deeper than the way I told him about._

"Still a touchy subject!" I yelp, his essay flashing though my mind. "And I'm not deep at all, two men can't have sex- oh, god, can they?"

_He touched me, and now he's gone. I wonder who next._

I read between the lines.

_I'm the Guilty One._

_They're right about one thing in this trial. When they think they're lying, they're telling the truth._

He chuckles to himself.

_And to think they look down upon lying. No; Moritz didn't kill himself; he was murdered._

It's the one time Melchior's ever been wrong.

"No, Melchi," I whisper. "I did it. I killed myself. Because I was stupid, so I failed school, and… because I was so, so stupid." The words are laced with bitterness, as is my face: bitter tears. "Don't be stupid too, Melchi." He's always been good at opening his eyes to the world; why can't he see me?

Because he's got his back to me, for one. Even as he chides himself for doing just that, he's being a hypocrite. Done lamenting, or perhaps just beginning, he tears a page out of his diary and begins another work.

A suicide note? I'm in Hell anyway, so I can freely admit the idea pleases me for a second.

_My dearest Wendla,_

But, no, it's not about me. It never was. It's worse than a suicide note; to me, it's the same thing.

It's a love letter.

_I have now seen, Wendla, how this contemptible society works- how everything we touch is turned to dirt._

But there I am again, grouped with the dirt. Damn it, I was never dirty before. Now, it's all I'll ever be. Dust. Wiped away in an instant.

But I'd forgotten; dust always comes back. Unwanted, of course, constantly cast away. I'll layer their furniture for the rest of their lives. They'll chase me with feathers, from the wings I was denied, like those tickle attacks Ilse always delighted in.

They'll still think of me as a chore, but at least they'll only be able to see me in the air when I'm floating in the light, which I'll never be.

No, I'll be one of those dust bunnies in the forgotten corners. Except no Easter eggs for me; bunnies can't lay eggs. Only chickens.

Yeah, I'm a chicken, I suppose, better than most, but there's nothing to fertilize me. Well, they might spray it over my grave, but it'll be too late then. Besides, men are supposed to fertilize. Women have the eggs.

I guess that's why I won't get them.

I never wanted to grow up to be dust.

_In the end, we only have each other._

"Exactly, Melchi. We have each other; we always have. Come on, have me- hey, I see your smile! Not in that way!"

_We must build a different world._

"I've got a world here. A world we can create the way we want." I kneel next to him. "We can turn our heads and laugh at those elders, laugh at the lost little boys in the meadow. Nothing really matters." I pause. "Remember when you made me laugh?"

_Despite what those whispering elders may say, I must set your head against my breast._

"Way to ruin my speech, Melchi." _Way to ruin everything._

_We must let ourselves breathe and move again in that Paradise…_

If only I could- but heaven's beyond me. Melchior's lucky. He found heaven on Earth. I can't even find it in death.

You think I'd have learned not to read Melchior's diary.

"Talk to me," I beg. "Talk to me, Melchi- tell me I'm okay."

He tries. "Talk to me, Moritz," he whispers. "Give me a sign you're okay."

And I try- I try so hard- but I always fail. I can't anyway, since it's a lie.

I'm not okay.

Neither's he, because I've never seen him cry before.

_Melchior's me._

Will he kill himself?

"Melchior Gabor?" a voice calls from below. He straightens, slamming his diary shut. Slamming me shut. His face is dry now, as if he'd never cried at all.

Did I hide it that well too?

No, he's too smart to kill himself.

Like what happened with me, they'll kill him too.

_And I'll laugh._

**

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Well, he will if he gets reviews! We all know what happens next- assuming people are still reading this. Reviews encourage updates!**


	6. Those You Wish You Hadn't Known

**Disclaimer: **Well, I do own the soundtrack, script, companion, and hopefully tickets to a second tour showing, does that count for anything?

**Notes: **Sorry for the lapse in updates. This one's not even that long, either. But Moritz probably doesn't need any more angst right now. (Because next chapter… let's just say he gets traumatized for life… or death, whatever…)

I don't follow him. Not right away. Because I always follow him, and for once, I'd like to see how he followed me.

His diary's closed, like my life. Hell, it was my life, the life I should have led. So appropriately, it's beyond me. No happily ever after; that's all Melchior and I have in common right now.

_Oh, we had so much more…_

But he can't follow me anymore, except to the grave, so the only way I can find out how he follows me is by following him. To his grave, perhaps.

"It would seem, young man, that all roads end in you," Herr Knochenbruch is saying. He doesn't know how right he is. He thinks he's arrogantly right and yet lying. "You do know what I mean?"

Melchior knows everything. Yet, he seems to realize that's not such a gift. "I'm afraid…"

_God, was everyone?_

"As well as one would be," the headmaster continues. "Two days after his father learned of the young, uh…"

Oh. My. God. They've forgotten my name already. Two days it took to forget me; and I still haven't forgotten. Maybe if I'd killed them instead, I'd forget about them. They might as well be dead, if they're going to haunt me anyway.

Fraulein Knuppeldick has to read from a list, which can only supply the name and not the person. "Moritz Stiefel."

Melchior already looks angry. Did my name always make him angry?

"…Moritz Stiefel's death, he searched through the boy's effects and uncovered a certain depraved and atheistic document which made terribly clear…" Herr Knochenbruch drones on.

"Terribly clear," Fraulein Knuppeldick supplies, and though I disagree with _her_, I agree with the statement.

"…the utter moral corruption of the young man," Herr Knochenbruch continues. "A corruption which, no doubt, hastened the boy's end."

That I want to disagree with. But I can't. Because no one would hear me anyway, and because it's true.

But I would have shot myself anyway, so in the end, did the timing matter? Melchior was only trying to help.

_Help me kill myself, that is._

"Without question, Herr Knochenbruch," the woman agrees.

"I am referring, as you may know, to a ten-page essay entitled, coyly enough, "The Art of Sleeping With"… accompanied by- shall we say- life-like illustrations."

I never did ask where he got the illustrations. Based on Melchior's expression, I don't want to know. Because I do know.

"Herr Knochenbruch, if I could…" Melchior tries.

"Behave properly?" Herr Knochenbruch suggests. "Yes, that would be another affair entirely."

"No, no, no…" I moan as Fraulein Knuppeldick mindlessly repeats the man's words. "Don't make Melchior me! He's not me! He's not…" I trail off. He's not what? Guilty? He knows he's a guilty one.

Because he knows everything. And he tried to teach me.

Now they're telling Melchior everything he already knows, all the guilt he's already gathered. They don't really care about me. I didn't think anyone did, and I was wrong, but I wasn't wrong about them. So why take it out on the one of the only people who did care?

Because they truly didn't care.

God, even when they're telling the truth, they're lying. Yes, the document terrified me, but the nightmares, perfectly natural according to Melchior, did as much. And yes, it looks uncannily like Melchior's writing, but didn't their God write it when he created us?

If I'm standing up for sex, then it's got to be pretty damn good. From what I hear, it's supposed to be, only you're supposed to lie down for it, not stand up…

Of course, being me, Melchior acts like me: stupid. "Sir, if you could show me only _one _obscenity…"

"That's not the point, Melchior! Don't miss the point!" Not like me, unless you're shooting yourself. Then, failing still isn't passing, but it's viewed as morally righteous.

They censor him more. "Yes or No," they say.

"No!" I shout, but they've censored me completely.

"Melchior Gabor, did you write this?"

It shouldn't take this long to answer. He knows the answer, and they know it. I know the right answer, for once.

"Say no, Melchi," I beg. "Write" could actually be "right," in which case, no, he wouldn't be the one to right the act.

If I can't live, maybe he can.

Yes, Melchior knows how to lie. But not in that way.

I'm always wrong. "Yes!" he shouts, proud.

_All I had to do was say yes! _I remember. All he had to do was say no.

Now, those words have killed us both. They don't need any more words. Just more nonsense.

_Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah._

Then, they start to take him away for me, as if I hadn't done a good enough job of that myself.

"No!" I cry. "No, no, no!" For God's sake, all he had to do was say no!

But Melchior didn't say no. He met challenges. He went where no one would. And now, he surely would, to some reformatory for criminals.

He didn't kill anyone; I was the killer. But they'll kill us both. Two birds with no stones.

If I'm a bird, how come I didn't get my angel wings?

I turn to face the teachers, since I never could when I had a face. "Bastards," I grit, the bitter taste lingering in my mouth. I'd never been so dirty before; but, now that I'm surrounded by dirt, cursing can't hurt. "You don't have any clue what you're doing."

As if to demonstrate, they send each other wicked grins as they drag Melchior out of the room.

"I can relate, of course," I continue, glaring at them. "But at least I know when I've done enough damage." They're not listening; they wouldn't even if they could. Slowly, I meet Melchior's eyes, and decisively, I flip them the finger. That finger. "I'm glad I was your downfall."

Melchior's eyes widen, and for a second, I wonder if he sees me. But no; it's got to be Wendla Bergman he's staring at, whose looking right back at him. Through me. Figures that death separates them.

Maybe it's my imagination, but it looks, inexplicably, like everyone's copying my gesture. They should know not to copy from me: I'm always wrong.

But, at this moment in time, they want to be wrong.

"You'll regret this someday," I tell the teachers, haunting their tail. "The day you'll need to think. You'll need people like him, but you'll have killed them all." For once, I imitate them and grin at failure. "And it'll kill you."

They're sending him to the attic now, where Melchior will disappear above them. I strain to meet his eyes, but he doesn't look down. Even now, I'm beneath him.

I got him into this mess. He probably blames me. Well, good. Maybe he won't be the only one. "And when the days comes, you remember Moritz Stiefel, the boy who ruined it all."

My father said something of the like once. It upset me at first, but now, I can live down the reputation.

Except I won't; I'm dead.

I know they won't remember me, since they didn't know me to begin with.

I wish I could say the same. Now, I know them too well.

No, I can't haunt them. Even though I'm the ghost, they'll always haunt me.

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I'm sure this makes everyone returning to school shortly feel even better about their teachers. *sighs* I'd totally brave the teachers if I could have the characters in my classes, though. Review?**


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